The Poet's Gift: Illustrated by One of Her Painters |
What people are saying - Write a review
We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.
Contents
| 154 | |
| 162 | |
| 172 | |
| 178 | |
| 180 | |
| 187 | |
| 193 | |
| 199 | |
| 72 | |
| 79 | |
| 81 | |
| 95 | |
| 97 | |
| 102 | |
| 109 | |
| 116 | |
| 127 | |
| 133 | |
| 140 | |
| 148 | |
| 205 | |
| 211 | |
| 218 | |
| 224 | |
| 231 | |
| 237 | |
| 244 | |
| 258 | |
| 279 | |
| 297 | |
| 304 | |
| 318 | |
Other editions - View all
The Poet's Gift: Illustrated by One of Her Painters (Classic Reprint) John Keese No preview available - 2016 |
Common terms and phrases
ALBERT PIKE autumn beams beautiful beneath bird blest bloom blossoms breast breath bright brow CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN chimes clouds dark deep dost doth dreams earth eternal FELICIA HEMANS flowers FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD friends gay woods gaze gentle GEORGE WASHINGTON DOANE Give me armour gleam glorious glory golden air graceful band grave green HADAD hath hear heart heaven hills holy hour leaves life's light lingers lone look lovelier melody midnight mighty moon morning mountain mournful murmur night at sea NORTH BURIAL GROUND o'er O’er pale passed rest roar rolled round shade shore sing skies sleep smile soft song soul sound spirit spring stars storm stream sweet swells tears thee thine Thou art thought throne tree twilight URSA MAJOR vale voice WASHINGTON ALLSTON watch waves weary wild WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT winds wings woods youthful
Popular passages
Page 37 - It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise ! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies ; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, Onward through life he goes ; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close ; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose.
Page 35 - His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan ; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.
Page 190 - The glory of Lebanon shall come unto thee, the fir tree, the pine tree, and the box together, to beautify the place of my sanctuary; and I will make the place of my feet glorious.
Page 36 - Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow: You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow. Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing floor.
Page 20 - A sister to the night !— Sleep not ! — thine image wakes for aye Within my watching breast: Sleep not! — from her soft sleep should fly, Who robs all hearts of rest. Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break, And make this darkness gay With looks, whose brightness well might make Of...
Page 96 - AYE, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath, When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, And the year smiles as it draws near its death. Wind of the sunny south ! oh, still delay In the gay woods and in the golden air, Like to a good old age released from care, Journeying, in long serenity, away.
Page 160 - And hung his bow upon thy awful front, And spoke in that loud voice which seemed to him Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake The "sound of many waters," and had bade Thy flood to chronicle the ages back And notch his centuries in the eternal rocks.
Page 198 - Kishon, is sweeping along ; Where the Canaanite strove with Jehovah in vain. And thy torrent grew dark with the blood of the slain.
Page 200 - And what if my feet may not tread where He stood, Nor my ears hear the dashing of Galilee's flood, Nor my eyes see the cross which He bowed Him to bear, Nor my knees press Gethsemane's garden of prayer ! Yet, Loved of the Father, Thy Spirit is near, To the meek and the lowly and peninent here, And the voice of Thy love is the same even now As at Bethany's tomb or on Olivet's brow.
Page 37 - He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes.
Bibliographic information
| Title | The Poet's Gift: Illustrated by One of Her Painters |
| Editor | John Keese |
| Illustrated by | John Gadsby Chapman |
| Publisher | T.H. Carter, 1845 |
| Original from | the New York Public Library |
| Digitized | 6 Oct 2006 |
| Length | 320 pages |
| Export Citation | BiBTeX EndNote RefMan |